Amir said nothing, but his eyes lingered on mine for a fraction too long—a silent acknowledgment of my rebelliousness.Or my foolishness.
Then, with a resounding clunk, my father pushed the door open.
The door groaned, revealing the next chapter of my life—one written in shadows and etched with pain.
There was no turning back.
I stepped forward, my pulse pounding in my throat, and stumbled into a tableau of torment that seared itself into my mind.
The chamber was a cavern of horrors, where suffering was both an art and a science.
Racks stretched limbs to the breaking point.
Iron maidens stood with their spiked interiors bared, their jagged maws hungry for flesh.
In the dim glow of torches, branding irons pulsed with hellish heat, their edges shining like embers awaiting their next victim.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and despair.
A sound rose through the chamber—a macabre symphony of agony.
Chained like twisted effigies, two women and three men hung from the walls, their bodies marred with bruises and welts, their raw wounds glistening under the quivering torchlight.
And in a shadowed alcove, another figure writhed upon a chair, the clank of his restraints punctuating his moans of pain.
I swallowed hard, my breath shallow, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.
This was it.
The heart of my father’s empire.
And I was expected to embrace it.
My father moved through the chamber with the delight of a child unwrapping a coveted gift.He reached for an instrument hanging on the wall—cat-o’-nine-tails, its leather thongs ending in twisted knots—and without hesitation, he set to work.
The first lash tore through the air, followed by the sound of flesh breaking.
A scream tore from the man bound before him, the raw, agonized sound lodging itself into my bones.
My father’s face was a mask of detached cruelty, his expression eerily serene as he worked as if this were a routine chore.
The image seared itself into my memory, a waking nightmare that would haunt me until my dying days.
My knees buckled.The room tilted, the stench of blood and burnt flesh coiling into my throat, threatening to drag me under.
Then—Amir’s hand.
Warm.Steadying.
His fingers pressed against my back, holding me upright, as if he had expected this reaction—as if he knew what was coming before I did.
His voice cut through the cacophony, a low murmur weighted with something unreadable.
“This is what we do, Elizabeth.We are monsters.”
His words should have been cold, but instead, they were final.Absolute.
“Lord Winston.Your father.Your brothers, when they were alive.Me.”
